


Fractions of His Faith

by Thousand_Ribbons (Meridians_of_Madness)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Armageddon, Branding, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Hell wins, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Objectification, Prayer, Rape, Reverse Omens au, Sexual Slavery, Threats, Verbal Humiliation, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22200862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/pseuds/Thousand_Ribbons
Summary: Hell wins, an angelic Crowley loses, and a demonic Aziraphale claims what he considers to be his.-Filled for the kink meme prompt locatedhere
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 269
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, Good Omens Kink Meme





	Fractions of His Faith

A great flash of light and a bolt of heat, and the battle was over, the war was over, _all_ of it was over.

Crowley's body was suddenly wracked with pain, and as the sword felt from his numbed hand, he stumbled to his knees in the mud.

 _It's over,_ he thought in shock, and then as the knowledge sank into his being, _it's over and we've lost._

On the field, every angel dropped, and the hosts of Hell rose over them, shrieking in triumph, some of them with savage grins on their faces and more with tears in their eyes.

 _Why tears? Crowley_ wondered. _They won. They won, why are they crying?_

Then Hell fell on Heaven's remnants, and Crowley realized that he didn't have any more time to wonder, had no more time at all. He should have been afraid, but instead he was so exhausted that he simply shut his eyes.

_Well, whatever. Not like I was having such a good time anyway..._

As tired as he was, a vicious clang of steel on steel made him look up, falling back on the ground as two swords crossed just a foot above his head.

The taller demon, eyes as black as tar, pulled back to give the other a furious look.

“Flash _fucking_ bastard,” he spat.

“If you like,” said the other demon. “Step _back_ , Duke Hastur.”

For a moment, Hastur seemed undecided, and then the other demon's white wings mantled over Crowley, casting him into shadow, making him shudder at the chill.

“I will not say it again, your grace,” he said calmly, and the sword in his hand lit up with a magnesium-bright flame.

At that, Hastur stepped back, spitting something thick and squirming on the ground between them.

“Even you can't always get your way, oh guardian of the Fifth Circle.”

“Oh, likely not,” was the reply. “But what's important is that I'm getting it _now_.”

Hastur growled and took to the sky as the demon with the sword turned towards Crowley and offered him his hand. Automatically, Crowley took it, and he found himself being helped- not jerked, not manhandled- to his feet.

“Who are you?” he asked, a strange and echoing hollowness in his belly.

The demon smiled. He was clad in armor, not gleaming and black like most of Hell's host, but carefully polished and mended. Crowley realized with some surprise that it was of human make, though girded with hexes to withstand angelic assault. The demon himself was a few inches shorter than Crowley and stocky. His pale curls made him look almost cherubic. It was his eyes that gave him away, though, the pupils solid black bars across the deep blue

“I am Aziraphale. Are you hurt?”

Crowley stared at the demon who was gazing at him with those inhuman eyes and a look of perfect calm across his features.

“Hurt?” Crowley managed, his voice ratcheting up. “Hurt, look _around_ , demon, could I be anything but-”

He cast a wild arm at the rest of the field, where Heaven's remnants were being slaughtered one and all... No. Not all.

Crowley's blood turned to ice in his veins as one demon fell upon a wounded angel- _God, that's Aveniel, it's Aveniel, I-_ and instead of killing them, bore them to their back to the bloody field. Aveniel screamed in shock and then in pain as the demon mounted them and one bloody taloned hand came down between their legs to-

Crowley didn't even realize that he was lifting his sword, didn't realize he was lunging towards the abomination- _It's Aveniel, you can't hurt them, you can't, not like that, they-_ and then he was brought up short by Aziraphale's hand around his arm. That was when Crowley knew that whatever grace he had, it was fled; his strength was gone, and all around them, the angels that hadn't been killed outright were discovering the same.

“Please,” he managed, unsure of what he could even ask for. “ _Please...”_

“Best not look at _that_ unpleasantness,” Aziraphale said almost kindly. “Come on. I'm taking you home, pretty prize.”

 _Prize,_ Crowley thought, sickened, and then they were gone

_*_

Crowley staggered a little when solid ground rushed up under his feet, and whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't an elegantly appointed, comfortably cluttered bookshop. There was something timeless and still about the place, as if someone had dammed up a bit of the Victorian era to create a reservoir of a bygone age, but when Crowley looked out the window, he saw a busy modern street on a winter's afternoon, people- _oh blessed, people!-_ rushing by, heads down against the spitting snow and eager to get home.

“Earth,” he said in surprise. “We're on Earth...”

“Soho, to be precise.”

Crowley turned and stared as Aziraphale stepped out from the shadows, adjusting a tartan bow tie with finicky care. The armor was gone, the blood was gone, and in place of the demon of the battlefield, there was a mild-mannered man, well-fed with a face used to smiling, who smelled of a light floral cologne. His clothing was out of date, his shoes were perfectly polished, and you could not imagine him with a flaming sword in his hand.

The eyes were the same though, goat-like or perhaps sheep-like, and they regarded Crowley with not an bit of warmth.

“Have you been to Soho before?” the demon inquired, and Crowley was so surprised he answered honestly.

“Er, yeah. Had a place in Mayfair... I guess I still do.”

“You don't,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Not any longer. You live here now.”

For some reason, the demon's calm declaration infuriated him, roused him from the sleepy dread that he could tell was shock.

“I don't. I fucking well don't, you can't just-”

“Why don't you try to leave?” Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley bared his teeth and spun towards the door. London was _right there._ He had lived in London since Shakespeare's day, he could fucking well return if he-

A sensation of nausea overtook him, his head swam, and when he looked up, Crowley realized he was taking a step closer to Aziraphale, who watched him with his hands folded neatly in front of him.

“Try again,” Aziraphale offered, and Crowley wheeled about, this time using all of his speed to gain the door.

His momentum put him just a few paces shy of Aziraphale before he stopped himself, and he stared at the demon in horror.

“Again,” Aziraphale said. His voice was cold.

Crowley couldn't help himself. He twisted and bolted for the door, and he swore that his fingertips were on the brass knob, that he could almost feel the cool of the winter's day on his face when he fell straight into Aziraphale's arms.

He tried to shove the demon away, but Aziraphale would not let him go, one hand gripping his arm in a punishing grip, and the other touching two fingers to Crowley's chest, over his heart.

Crowley screamed before he registered the pain. He could smell burning flesh and singing fabric, he could taste the steam, but the pain felt muffled, further away. When he looked down, the horror of seeing the demon's glyph seared into his body was a far away thing. Surely that wasn't him. Surely he hadn't been branded like some prize heifer.

 _Then_ it hurt, and he sagged against the demon in shock, clutching Aziraphale's shoulders so he wouldn't fall to his knees. He whined as Aziraphale's cool hand stroked his forehead, brushed his hair back from his face.

“There, there. It's over now. I know it hurts, but there, you'll be right as rain in no time.”

Crowley barely recognized the sounds were working their way out of his throat. When he realized they were words and which words they were, he swallowed them again, because he rather thought he wasn't meant to be saying _those_ words anymore. Instead he drew in deep gulps of air, willing the pain away, and when it calmed down to a dull thunder, he looked up to meet Aziraphale's gaze.

The demon looked almost tender, one arm still wrapped around Crowley's waist to support him, the other smoothing back his hair.

“Better now?” he asked, sympathy fairly dripping from his tone.

 _Like he was asking a child about his skinned knee,_ Crowley thought angrily.

He shrugged himself out of Aziraphale's grasp, and somewhat to his surprise, the demon let go, stepping back with a slight smile.

“You'll get over your little pout once you've sat down and rested. That battle was rather beastly, wasn't it? Simply not to be borne. I for one am quite glad it's over and done with.”

Aziraphale turned to the hearth, where there were two elegant chairs and a low mahogany table between them. Rather too Garrick Club for words, Crowley thought snidely, pleased he could still be snide.

A snap of Aziraphale's fingers summoned up a light meal of cucumber sandwiches, dainty scones, and ramekins of jam and clotted cream. A battered and clearly beloved teapot sat by the food, and there were saucers and upturned cups set neatly to either side.

Crowley found himself studying the display for a moment. It was particular. It was specific. It was something created not by a demon who had simply thought _afternoon tea,_ but instead by one who had carefully picked through the options, chosen _that_ bread, _that_ cucumber, and _that_ butter. It was a demon with a favorite teapot, and as he he sat down, Aziraphale stroked the curved side of the pot with a friendly and affectionate hand.

“There, that's nice, isn't it?” he asked. “Do sit down.”

“If you think for one fucking moment-”

Crowley gasped as the brand over his heart grew hotter. He glanced down to see the glyph smoldering, and he grit his teeth.

“I. Am. Not. Doing-Ah!”

It was hot, it was pain, it was pain as cruel as the brand being set on him in the first place. This time, without Aziraphale there, Crowley dropped to his hands and his knees, panting and filtering a scream through his teeth. Just as he was sure he was going to crack, the pain let up and that brought him to the floor, loose and cold with relief.

“Of course you are, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “Only now I'm afraid you have to crawl to the chair.”

He paused, making a concerned noise.

“Best you hurry along. Much longer, and I won't let you have the chair.”

Crowley shuddered and something in him _did_ crack at that. He was on the losing side of the only battle that had ever mattered, he had seen his friends killed and raped, he had been fucking _branded,_ and somehow the idea of having to kneel at the table like a dog waiting for scraps cracked him.

He crawled to the chair without looking at Aziraphale. Even then, he hesitated for a moment when he got there, glancing instinctively back at Aziraphale to see if he was permitted. With a pleased smile, Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley drowned in that humiliation, of asking for permission to rise from the ground.

The chair was comfortable however, and he was tired. It fit him well, perfect for the length of his legs and the slouch of his back. It was comfortable, and it smelled like the demon did, of spice and flowers and something about to catch fire underneath it all.

Aziraphale busily split a scone in half, layering one side with jam and the other with cream before placing half a sandwich -diagonal cut and without crust- alongside it on a plate. He handed it to Crowley.

“I don't want that.”

Aziraphale smiled.

“I think you do.”

The heat that lit around the brand was teasing, almost playful, and when Crowley looked for the strength to resist it, he found none. He took the plate, only shaking a little, and Aziraphale fairly beamed.

“You'll find it's quite good,” he said encouragingly.”The bread comes from a bakery by Haggerston Park, and it really _is_ the best to be found in London...”

There was no other word for it, Aziraphale _nattered._ He rambled over everything from the jam- mint and rose-to the plates-acquired right before the bombing of Dresden- and Crowley found himself oddly lulled by it, washed smooth as a pebble in the tide of utterly meaningless trivia. The food tasted fine, he supposed, but he ate it because... because he was too weak to do otherwise.

It came to him slowly that Aziraphale had left him in his battle dress, the kilt singed and dragged with mud at the hem, the jacket fouled with grime and blood. One of his spats had been shredded entirely, leaving the skin underneath raw and bloodied. He hadn't even noticed, but as Aziraphale sipped his tea, his uncanny eyes roving over Crowley's battered form, Crowley knew the demon had.

Crowley looked down with surprise to find his plate was empty and his teacup likewise. He couldn't remember eating most of it or drinking the tea, but he must have. Aziraphale finished up, setting the plate in front of him on the table, and then with a snap of his fingers, he made it disappear down to the last crumb.

“Well, that was nice, wasn't it?” he said, and he stood, folding his hands in front of himself neatly. “I think it's time you get undressed. Would you rather do it yourself or shall I take care of it?”

“Please,” Crowley whispered, his voice shattered. _“Don't.”_

Aziraphale only looked at him expectantly, and Crowley knew even as the brand over his heart warmed that it was as much a choice as he was going to get, as much a choice as he was _ever_ going to get with Aziraphale.

“I'll do it,” he muttered.

“Excellent.”

Crowley was clumsy removing his clothes. He felt years, millennia, eons away from the angel who had put them on. He hadn't wanted to put them on. Taking them off was worse, and as he bent to unbutton his spats and remove his shoes, as each piece of clothing hit the floor, he grew colder and colder, until the only warmth left to him was the brand Aziraphale put on him.

He hung his head as Aziraphale looked him over like an exhibit in a museum.

 _Relic of a bygone age,_ Crowley thought. _One angel, born as the first light shone in Heaven, spinner of stars, beloved of God and lover of all human things, made to love, only to love..._

“Very nice,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley knew he was only congratulating himself for his own good taste. Something had made him pick Crowley instead of poor Aveniel or some other angel on the field, and oh, he was pleased with his choice.

Crowley flinched as Aziraphale ran a hand down his spine.

“I like the thinness,” he mused, his hand sliding around as if judging the curve of Crowley's ribs. “It suits you, somehow.”

 _I'm not a human,_ Crowley thought desperately. _I'm not. This is only a body. It doesn't matter what he does to it, it doesn't... it doesn't hurt me the same. It won't be me, it's not me..._

Then Aziraphale came around in front of him, and, cupping his hand behind Crowley's neck, pulled him in for a deep kiss. The kiss was firm and lingering, and Crowley uttered a soft mewling sound when the tip of Aziraphale's tongue slid along his lips. It was warm, sending an electric spark of pleasure through the core of him, unlooked for and unwanted. He parted his lips in surprise, and Aziraphale stepped back.

An echo of Aziraphale and the odd sweetness of the kiss lingered on his mouth. Crowley realized that even if he wasn't human, he was human enough for this particular violation.

“ _Very_ nice,” Aziraphale repeated. “That was your first kiss.”

“It doesn't _mean_ anything,” Crowley protested, his fists clenched by his sides. “It doesn't, it's just... it's just a silly human thing.”

“Oh, but I do love silly human things,” Aziraphale said earnestly. “They're ingenious, really one of Her best jokes, _I_ think, though no one asks me.”

Aziraphale paused, tilting his head and looking at Crowley, seeing more than a human could. When he spoke again, his words were as smooth and soft as silk.

“For example, the concept of virginity. How clever it is, the idea that one act, no more significant than a broken bone or a spilled cup of tea, can shift someone from one state to another, how it can change how that person views themself. One simple act gives them something they carry all their lives, like a stain or a wound. That's a better joke than anything _we_ could come up with down below...”

Crowley shut his eyes, but the tears came anyway. He thought of Aveniel.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, just stop.”

“Of course, I'm sorry. I do go on,” Aziraphale said, and then his voice shifted, became something colder and more eager. “I think you had better get onto the table.”

Stumbling, eyes still half shut, Crowley clambered onto the table like a clumsy dog. When his abused shin hit the wood, the pain shocked him once and then was gone again. He had been hurt too much in the last while to pay it any mind.

Aziraphale circled him, murmuring softly to himself and then with a pleased nod, he came to stand behind Crowley. He nudged his feet apart and dragged him back until his knees were on the edge of the table. Crowley's breath was shallow and high, his heart pounding in his chest. He thought he must be panicked, terrified out of his wits, but he couldn't feel it, couldn't feel _anything_ but this foggy dread. He was only real in this moment, and there was nothing that came before or that came after.

“Let's see now,” Aziraphale murmured to himself. “What would suit you...”

Of course he hadn't been wearing anything between his legs for the battle. Stupid thing to do. He didn't bother with it most of the time, there was no one to bother _for,_ though maybe if he were honest with himself, he had always wondered if that might be nice. Aveniel had the sweetest smile and the prettiest hands, and angels making efforts for each other might have been a little strange, but even in Heaven, it was generally understood that everyone was a little strange for Michael...

Then he remembered that Michael was dead, and Aziraphale slid his hand between Crowley's thighs, growing out a cock and balls with a careful grab. Another rough press gave him an anus as well, and Crowley dropped to his elbows, sobbing at the casual violence of having his body reshaped for Aziraphale's whims.

“Oh that's nice, very lovely on you, my dear.”

“I fucking hate you,” Crowley managed through a choked sob. “I can't... I can't do this, don't...”

“Oh you don't have to do anything,” Aziraphale said absently. “Only keep still.

Crowley groaned when Aziraphale spread his cheeks apart, gliding a slicked thumb over and around the hole. He wasn't an idiot, he knew what came next, but his stomach dropped like stone and he couldn't get over the terror that it wouldn't, that he couldn't, that he would be split apart and left, just left...

The first press, two fingers, was brutally hard, and Crowley had to brace himself against it or be sent sprawling to the floor on his face. It burned, it ached, felt wrong, _so_ wrong, and then Aziraphale pulled back only to drive in a third finger, parting new sore flesh with something approaching care.

 _Of course he cares,_ Crowley thought wildly. _He cares for his damned teapot, would never do anything to shatter or to destroy it... he cares for it because...because..._

Because he found it lovely. Because it served his purposes admirably.

Crowley sobbed, and it had nothing to do with Aziraphale's touch or how his body resisted it.

Aziraphale worked at him, opening him with a diligence that was saved from being mechanical only by his light fast breathing and by the rising tide of something so much like love that it made Crowley sick. The dose made the poison, he had heard once, and this was a killing dose.

When Aziraphale pulled away, Crowley felt open and tender, sure he must be gaping. The tears were coming steadily now, soaking his face and his hands, but he didn't sob out loud until he felt the tip of the demon's blunt cock against his hole. Not gaping after all, no, now it felt too tight, as if he hadn't been prepared at all.  
He expected a hard shove, but then he felt Aziraphale's hand run up his spine, ruffling the hair at the base of his neck with something very like affection.

“If I break you, I will mend you,” he promised.

It came again, that tide like love but not love, and Crowley groaned as Aziraphale surged into him with one deep thrust. The demon didn't stop until his hips were flush with Crowley's, until Crowley had taken his full length and was weeping nearly hysterically from the hurt of it.

“No, no, no, _please_ , I can't, I can't take that, I can't, just take it _out_ , _please_ take it out...”

Aziraphale hummed with pleasure When he started to pull back, for one desperate foolish moment, Crowley thought that Aziraphale had listened and that the pain he had already taken from Crowley was enough. Then he thrust again, and again and again, and Crowley howled because it hurt and because he knew it would never be enough, not for Aziraphale.

The words he had held back before, dear and precious as gold, tumbled from his lips, involuntary as his tears.

“ _Sanctus... Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth,_ ” he wept. There was nothing there that his reach, immortal, inhuman and divine, could touch, but he could not stop himself. _“Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua...”_

If he could have thought about it, he might have been wary of saying those words in front of a demon, but Aziraphale only laughed, delighted and _so_ pleased with himself.

“Still an angel after all,” Aziraphale marveled, and it was clear that by _angel,_ Aziraphale meant _fool_.

“Oh, my darling...Do you really think She'll save you? Do you _really_ think that?”

Crowley wailed as Aziraphale fucked him even harder, practically bouncing him off his cock. The splitting pain eased back just a touch so that he could feel the demon's hips grinding against him and his fingers digging into his waist and raking across his back.

It seemed to go on forever, Aziraphale fucking into him, scattered holy words falling from his mouth, the feeling of being wrapped in the demon's delight. It would never end. He had no past and no future, there was only this moment and it would never end.

Of course it did, eventually.

Aziraphale pushed into him one last time, holding Crowley snug to his body as his spilled deep inside him.

“That's right, all of it,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley only whimpered, screamed out, _fucked_ out and so exhausted he might have fallen unconscious impaled on the demon's cock. He almost tumbled straight off the table when Aziraphale pulled out, but Aziraphale steadied him until he could securely rest on his hands and knees again.

“There you are, my dear. That was well done, and you a virgin, too. Oh, _well_ done.”

Crowley knew it was a human thing, a _ridiculous_ human thing, but the words hollowed him, left, yes, something in his spirit that he feared would always be Aziraphale's. It was a wound that he couldn't, in this moment, imagine healing.

There was a brief stirring of miraculous energy, and then Crowley uttered an exhausted whine as Aziraphale pressed something against his ill-used hole. It was terribly cold and unforgivably hard, and it kept widening him more and more until finally, with a pop he felt rather than heard, it was in, and he could close around the narrow neck.

 _Steel plug,_ his mind provided, and he wished, vaguely surprised he even still could, that it hadn't.

“There we are,” Aziraphale said. “That will make next time much easier.”

Before Crowley could start to think of _next time,_ Aziraphale was helping him up from the table. As weakened as he was, Crowley could do nothing but cling to him. The brand on his chest was warm, almost pleasant. It made him think of the sting of hot sauce on his tongue. He had learned to like hot sauce. Would he learn to like this as well?

“Come along, my dear,” Aziraphale was saying. “First a bath, and then I shall mend any wounds you took on the field, and then... shall was say a nap? You are so dreadfully pale, and some rest would likely do you good...”

By the end of the demon's rape, he had stopped crying, finally too numb to do anything but endure. Now, though, the tears came back, falling down his face, dripping off his chin to the hardwood floor. Aziraphale gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek, murmuring soft sweet words to him, and it felt good, just like a bath and a nap would feel good, just like the kiss had.

That, he thought numbly, was the horror of it.

Sometimes, it _would_ feel good.


End file.
